June 23, 2005

The 28th Day - extract

From the Collection Irish Girls About Town

I am sitting at the breakfast table with my husband Michael, the man I normally love cherish and adore. Only I will not love and cherish and adore him for the next 24 hours. I will detest, despise and resent the very air he breathes because I have p.m.t.

I am trying very hard to ignore the loud slurping noises emanating from his corner as he performs an architectural dig on a bowl of cornflakes. He scrapes the bottom with a metal spoon. The noise is worse than two skeletons fighting to get out of a biscuit tin. I know I have p.m.t. I know what it is. I know why it happens. I know all about the hormonal imbalance, but all the knowledge in the world will not abate the terrific storm that looms in our normally happy abode. I know that it passes and I know I can’t help the way I feel. All the same, it doesn’t stop me from wanting to stick a knife in Michael’s eye.

Ellie, my eight year old wanders in to the kitchen. Her blonde ponytails are matted in Sabrina’s secrets hair mascara. She has a ton of lipstick on, and none of it, is on her lips. She stands at the table with her new violin. She places the bow on the strings. The noise that comes out sounds like a bag of suffocating cats. She’s only had three lessons and she’s bloody awful. I try not to cover my ears.

“Hello munchkin,” Michael says to her. Hello, he says, to her. Not a good morning to me. He did that deliberately. The swine. He’ll do everything in his power to trip me up. Well, he can sing, I’m not going to utter one profanity or make one mistake this time. It doesn’t occur to me that I haven’t exactly showered him with love and adoration and overt affection, nor does it occur to me that within five seconds I will have offended every breathing entity within my radius and not have a clue why.

“Ellie. Have you been at my make-up bag again?” I snap at the little mite. She is waiting for me to tell her how good she is on the violin, but my wincing has convinced her to put it away.

The narkiness is not directed towards her or even him but I am powerless to shut my mouth. It will do exactly as it pleases and I will be completely at its mercy for the whole day. What I really need is one of those muzzles, you know, like Hannibal Lecter in Silence of the Lambs? I’m not fit to be let out, let alone speak. I contemplate taking a large dose of sleeping pills that will knock me unconscious for the waiting duration until the blessed period arrives. At best, Michael might hold off with the divorce papers, which is what he threatened me with the last time. He’s always saying he will leave home when the next bout of madness comes around. With the daggers looks that are being exchanged presently, genocide seems a more likely outcome. I know by Michael’s face that he is aware it’s that time of the month. I can’t stand the sight of him. His very presence is annoying me. I hate the way he makes those little grunting noises. He looks fat and old and I can’t remember one tiny ant sized good thing about him. Actually, I can’t even remember why I married him. Look at the state of him. Smiling away to himself. The great big eejit. Happy he is. The fucking nerve. He’s no right to be happy when I feel like a bag of shit. He’s doing that to annoy me as well. The ‘I’m a happy normal well adjusted balanced human being’ thing. As opposed to ‘You’re a crazed lunatic with a potentially lethal kitchen utensil and I’m pretending not to notice that my life is at stake,’

Extract taken from The 28th Day, from the collection Irish Girls about town

Posted by damien at 08:47 AM | Comments (0)